


Disarray

by EAI



Series: Tell the Tales [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Blood and Gore, Fantasy AU, M/M, Oculus is a Goddess, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-10-30 08:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10872633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAI/pseuds/EAI
Summary: “—it is as clear as day, whether you like it or not, dear Barry. You’re on your merry way to become a scheming pirate yourself,” the corners of Leonard’s lips pulled upwards, challenging and daring him to initiate this privy game of theirs, as his fingers danced along Barry’s naked arms.He wrenched the pirate close to him, where his blue eyes widened a little, and spat. “Never.”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is not beta'd, English is not my first language. This work is mostly inspired by Pirates of the Caribbean, so be warned. Oh yeah, this is my first ColdFlash, woot! <3

 

 

—flickering colors of auburn and amber reflected against coins and treasures of silver and gold, illuminating the stifling cavern like the scorching, fiery depths of Hell. The sailor cowered behind a petrifying stone-carved figure, where he took a glimpse at the towering, cloaked fiend – sobbing atop its throne of gold, hunched over an open wooden coffer. In spite of the eerie darkness, he could clearly discern the fiend’s chilling appearance. Huge and tall, its skin was slithered and littered with rotten chips and splinters of wood, stones, and soiled with mud and mold. He wallowed in his fear, he could not believe his eyes. The rumors were true, the myth was real.

“My love… Why did you leave me? Where did you go?” the fiend cried.

Its nightmarish voice, growling and wailing, sent shivers down his spine as the sailor stuttered in his prayers for safety and clutched his rosemary tightly. Drenched in his sweat, he stood waiting for his window of opportunity. The fiend, thank the Lord, did not seem to notice his presence. For now. He could steal any of its treasures, but what he desired the most was the coffer it was protecting. He heard, there was no amount of wealth that would compare to the mysterious item inside the box.

The item he knew, the infamous Captain of the Rogues was madly hunting.

Finally when the beast limped away, leaving the coffer on its throne as it grumbled in absolute pain, the sailor slipped out of his hide and crept for his goal – careful not to step on loose mountains of coins. The content itself was shocking, but he figured it would worth all his troubles. He could sell this antique to the officials or make bargains with thieving pirates, he could be rich! He then tucked the coffer inside his pack and scampered for the exit.

As he quickly crawled his way up and out, through the narrow opening to the surface – his hands scraped red and sore from grabbing hold on sharp, congealed stones and wet earth – he quaked when he heard the fiend’s monstrous cry. It echoed so loudly that it shook the walls around him.

 

 


	2. the Waves Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd, English is not my first language. If this chapter's confusing to you guys, it's because i intended it to come out like that. Enjoy!

 

 

_—his throat burned as he sank deeper into the ocean, bubbles of air left his mouth as he tasted the bitter, coppery zest of iron, and watched the deep crimson misting and swirling before his eyes._

_The sky seemed like auroras above him, dancing in monotonous hues of white and gray and the moon seething bright. He thought he saw a silhouette of a curious siren in the blur, bearing the face of a woman he once met. But he truly recognized her by her snow-blonde hair, flowing long and wavy; ashen skin shimmering against dark blue, her smile so radiant, her aquamarine eyes and her tattered rose-golden gown. This was not a replica nor a hallucination, he learned that from before. This was real._

_She was here, with him._

_She took hold of his hand and urged him to swim with her, promising that she would take him home. Home, where was he to begin with? What happened to him? He moved to follow, their fingers intertwined, but the next second he found himself waking – still trapped in the deep blue – and struggling in the midst of a violent whirlpool. Its waters blistered hot and heavy on his chest, as he fought and clawed against the powerful surge, and tried to pay no heed at the blooming pain on his stomach. Wading upwards when the pull grew less, he dodged projectiles of shattered wood and glass, ammunitions and pieces of broken cannons. He rose to the surface, welcomed by the taunting smell of smoke as he gasped and coughed, he spotted his ship dallying nearby and his crew screaming his name._

_“—come on! Swim, lad!”_

_Grunting at his injury, he swam for the steps and grabbed his partner’s waiting hand as the man hauled him aboard. He slumped and curled on the deck’s cold wooden floor, catching his breath as he felt gentle hands inspecting his wounds and familiar voices hushing softly at him. They said he needed a lot of stitches and medicine, and that he could be poisoned too – very likely, poisoned. His partner then left his side, barking orders at the crew, to ready the ship to sail away from this madness. Stuttering his thanks as his tired body shivered at the midnight breeze, he was covered with a warm blanket shortly after, and was gathered into the arms of his sister whom he cherished dearly._

_“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, brother,” she smiled down at him. “I’m here now, it’s all right.”_

_He raised his eyes to look at her, and remembered all too clearly that he was brutally betrayed not too long ago. By a trusted friend, no less, a friend he considered a brother. His sister ran her thumb to wipe the fat tear that rolled down his cheek, as she rocked to comfort him. Together, he and his crew wistfully watched the tragedy – the execution – whilst they steered away; hearkening the harrowing, deafening hymn of their once trusted and beloved crewmate’s wails. The sight was beyond words, a sea devil’s wrath was not to be played with. He trembled and closed his eyes when the hymn howled his name, bellowing curses and pledged to return to seek vengeance and collect his blood bounty. Then the squall stopped; clapping thunders silences, the maelstrom vanished – swallowing **Scudder’** s wreck into the starving sea. _

_“Is it over?” his sister asked._

_Honestly, he didn’t know. But the seas were unpredictable, and he knew that the war had just begun._

_When all seemed to deceptively peaceful, each crewmember nervously waiting for the eerie unknown, he tore out a cry at the sudden searing pain shooting up his right arm – finding crawling tendrils of purplish-blue beneath his pale skin. Panicked faces returned to his dimming view, calling his name, their hands holding him down as he shook, their lips moving but muted. He surrendered to his pain, breathing labored, as he let the slow swaying of the Rogues drifting him to sleep._

 

*

 

Sixteen years later.

 

—how many hours had he been sleeping? Barry blinked the tiredness off his eyes and straightened his back where he had drooped awkwardly on his seat. Glancing at the window, he deduced – it was late afternoon and surprisingly, he was alone in his shared quarters. His Navy frock on his bed and his weapons remained right where he left them. His share of red wine was untouched, his chest of morphine still neatly packed. Nothing out of the ordinary. Stretching out his sore muscles and running his face over with his hands, Barry then frowned at the ghastly mess of ink soaked parchments on his table. What in the world?

He recalled enjoying a friendly – _maybe_ – discussion an hour after lunch with Edward Thawne, his adopted sister’s fiancée and a fellow Lieutenant aboard this vessel, but he couldn’t rouse whatever nonsense that happened next.

Oh, yes.

Pirates, and tidal waves.

Edward convinced him to sleep away his exhaustion, as per the Commodore’s orders, and Barry reluctantly agreed. He was told that he was deeply engrossed with capturing barbarous pirates and solving the mystery of massive king tides that he kept forgetting to sleep and eat. Then he dreamed of drowning, and of a stranger clothed in blue black – a walking blur from the darkest pages of his childhood memories. Voice so indistinct and his face, scratched off. The images looped over and over, revealing him nothing new but the same man standing by his side as he held Barry’s tiny hand; kneeling before him to fix his clothes and brush the dirt off his shoulders, and disappearing into the morning mist just as quickly when Barry turned to look. He felt no bubbling panic nor animosity, and decided that this person was someone he used to know and trust, someone he felt incredibly safe with. But who? Why did he dream of him now?

He shook away his memories, crumpling the ruined parchments, cleaned his table and washed his face.

As Barry returned to his table, he thought he should continue his assignment before the cook called him for dinner. His assignment, a duty authorized personally to him. Scrawling dutifully on his ledger, occasionally dipping the point of his quill into a new jar of ink, he recorded all the pleasant events of his travels and the happenings aboard the ship; added the counts of arrested pirates, the loss of lives from reportedly monstrous rows of tsunamis that wiped cities and ports, filled in the dates and his personal thoughts to his reports for the Governor of Central.

The Governor, Joseph West – _Joe_ – who happened to be his protective, adoptive father.

First Lieutenant _Bartholomew Henry Allen_ or simply _Barry_ as he preferred to be called, was the poor orphan fortunate enough to be fostered by the goodhearted Governor. Too small and too young sixteen years ago, Barry remembered sailing east with his parents along with dozens of other thrilled passengers when a vicious storm ambushed them, gobbled up their ship and spat him out to drown. And that wasn’t all. Amidst the chaos, there was another vessel, waiting with their guns ready. Black sails, cold and ominous, with a carving of a haunted siren at its bow, a pirate ship – the _Rogues_. At the first impact, the ship lost its main mast. It crashed down atop sailors and frenzied passengers, toppling the vessel to the side just as the second missile struck the cargo hold for gunpowder. Fire erupted, and an explosion followed not long after. And in the craze, Barry was somehow rescued from the storm, safe in the arms of his savior who whispered to him, _I got you_.

Then he was home in Central, moved up the social chain like a cruel comparison to his past life. Barry knew he had lost a few chapters of his memories, of whatever occurred in between, and it changed him terribly.

Barry didn’t get to spend enough of his childhood happily, he grew up too fast. Much to Joe’s utter disappointment, he never bothered with his new life of glittering jewels and oppressive laws as he felt much more homely among the commoners who shared his sentiments. He called himself a survivor, became a street brawler who protected the bullied crowd, and had a violent, wayward moments with his adoptive father throughout his rough adolescent years. The nobles said, his turbulent streak was most likely caused by his previous class and trauma, he had witnessed his parents’ unfortunate deaths after all. He then joined the military at the height of his rebellion, on his own volition of course, when he discovered that he bore an undying longing for the sea. He thought, perhaps he should try to earn his worth. Thus, Barry trained and practiced his hands with swords and pistols; polished his attention to his surroundings and be aware of any threat of physical confrontations, straightened his posture accordingly to the ethics required for both a noble and a gentleman, and simply studied and adapted. He was acknowledged after a few years of service, by his superiors and peers, as the youngest ranked Lieutenant out of many in Central Royal Navy, and as a respected swordsman and a sailor.

It had been close to thirteen-months since he left Central to join Commodore Harrison Wells’ fleet of four. Wayfaring on board his mentor’s proud frigate, taking orders only from him as he organized and administered their assigned sailors, Barry did his best and learned and worked as much as he could. Their utmost priority was to provide naval defense for any visiting ships and protect the vulnerable security of their home sweet home, no matter the consequence – be it dead or alive. They bargained and traded information with foreign, retired sailors and fishermen and merchants for the comings and goings on sea; visited neighboring ports, cities and colonies, patrolling around their precious maritime boundaries and assisting cargo and treasure vessels from deviant pirates. And arresting said pirates for all the crimes they committed.

Supposedly, the fleet was due to return to Central two weeks ago, but a sudden calamity halted their journey home. Keystone, Central’s most valuable trading ally, had vanished. Wiped out of existence, leaving only frightened mumblings as oral evidence from its few surviving townspeople. The news baffled all, none of the nearby ports or passing ships were aware of its sudden disappearance, until the Commodore’s fleet arrived a few hours before sunrise. The weather, as Barry had written in his ledger beforehand, was considerably fair at the time of said disaster. Clear night sky, no earthquakes, and no hurricanes. But the tide was shockingly low. The survivors – a distraught mother who lost her two young sons, an injured merchant and an old fisherman, told them that a gigantic wave had barraged the city around midnight; strong surges of water swept through every nook and cranny, the earth beneath their feet drowned and mercilessly destroying and murdering all that stood in its path.

The fisherman persisted that someone had angered the sea devil – _Savitar_ – and now, the fiend’s wrath would know no bounds. But none of their rescuers, even the Commodore himself, believed him. Savitar was a fictitious legend, composed by a madman, and told by vile pirates of old. Though Barry had his doubts, that perhaps, the poor fisherman was right. The fleet then sailed across a few more settlements, witnessing similar catastrophe of missing ports and villages, and similar tales from their survivors.

_“—the waves talk. S-Savitar, I saw its tail…! The w-waves talk.”_

Savitar, as he was told years ago, was once a man terribly in love with a beautiful maiden. Mourning for the loss of his parents who were taken by the sea, he taunted Poseidon – murderer! The sea god, furious, damned the human and captured him to rot in the hellish, crushing depths of the ocean. Savitar’s lover, the maiden who learned of his plight from the waves, begged for Poseidon’s mercy. The god thus gave her an ultimatum. And she accepted her fate, the duty she was heavily charged with, only to ease Savitar’s burden and pain. Doomed to remain in the mutilated body of a monster; masked with the crackling, burning scorch of lightning that shredded his human skin whenever he ran, forbidden to reunite with the lover who saved him, Savitar terrorized the seven seas – haunted the mortals who crossed them – to spite Poseidon who cursed him.

A legend, an exaggerated tale composed by a madman, told by vile pirates of old. But the waves—

_“—the waves talk. Time has saved us. The waves talk… but they boil when it nears.”_

—he placed his dreams together – an unknown stranger, drowning and rescue. Barry paused, resting down his quill and closed his ledger, as he recalled the fisherman’s exact words. The waves talk. He frowned at the crumpled parchments by his jar of ink when he realized his hands were unmistakably clean. One could say that Barry believed in magic, both pure and dark, and its capability to navigate answers through cryptic dreams. Perhaps, the waves in his dreams were trying to tell him something. Reaching over, he flattened the parchments one by one all over his table.

_“—an infidel, he stole Savitar’s treasure. I-It runs above the waters, faster than Zeus… searching, hunting. Its treasure, not silver. Not gold.”_

He arranged them, hoping to find a closure but discovered an ataxia of letters and laughable blotches and smudges of ink instead. He thought too much, that was all. These only raised more vexing questions, and the Commodore and Joe no doubt, would inquire him of his findings. Barry groaned as he slumped back to his seat before deciding that he would take a few hours of another well-deserved recess. He shrugged into his frock coat; wore his hat and his weapons, and once presentable, he stepped outside his shared quarters. Few of the sailors and low-ranked officers greeted him as he made his way to the quarterdeck where the Commodore and his adorable toddler gazed admiringly at the setting sun. Edward, who stood supervising the men on deck, sighed at Barry’s somewhat disgruntled face, exhaustion and strain weighing on his shoulders.

“You’ve become quite obsessed with the fisherman’s tale, Barry.”

“Obsessed? Debatable. But is that what we’ve really discussed earlier? The fisherman?”

Edward raised his eyebrows, as if he was proving his point. “You’re treading on fiction. Heed me, dear man, that it’s best to leave it alone.”

He patted Barry’s back, and left him to climb the few steps to join the Commodore and his daughter, and announced them his presence.

“We have another twenty miles to cover, but with this good weather, we should be arriving home by tomorrow morning,” the Commodore said. “And I assume you’ve rested well?”

“Yes. I thank you kindly, sir.”

Wells turned to him with a smile, his young daughter perched on his hip, cooing and fiddling with the golden stripes of his coat. “I should be the one thanking you. You’ve done great work for the past thirteen months, I am both impressed and proud of you. Your efforts and your everlasting loyalty to Central and the King shall be paid wholeheartedly.”

“With all due respect, sir, I—“

“Hush, hush, I’m not done yet,” Barry bit the insides of his cheek as his commanding officer halted him, and took a moment pause. “Have you visited our guests at the brig? Have you noticed how the pirates look at you? Have you heard their rumblings?”

Barry frowned, his fingers twitched for his sword. He was too caught up, not obsessed, with the fisherman’s story. Yes, he and Edward did argue about said subject before he fell asleep, he remembered. “Unfortunately, I haven’t.”

“They fear you, Barry,” Wells told him, mirth written on his face. “No need to be alarmed, and remember that this is what we aim for. We will let them be afraid of you. Hate you, tremble at your name. You will set an example, as the sentinel against piracy, to all those marauders who dare to cross the laws.”

Before he joined the fleet, the Commodore did tell him of a covert assignment planned between him and Joe – in which they aimed to use fear, through Barry’s brutal finesse, to subjugate the pirates. Barry admitted that the goal sounded troubling for his liking, but he could only agree and nod his head.

“Yes, sir.”

“So, how do you feel about a promotion?”

“P-Promotion?” he asked, taken aback by the sudden change of subject.

“Yes! _Captain_ Bartholomew Henry Allen. There’s an edge to it, don’t you think?”

Barry gaped. “I’m flattered, really flattered. But I don’t think I deserve such title.”

“Oh, nonsense,” the Commodore puffed, his face contorted when his daughter slapped a drool-covered hand on his cheek. “I have seen how much you value all the lives on board this ship and the rest of the fleet, the pirates excluded of course. The way you take responsibility and govern your men, and how they respect you in return. Those are the makings of an exemplary Captain, perhaps, an Admiral. Accept it, Barry.”

He returned with a small smile, unsure on how to react with his sudden promotion and the Commodore’s compliments. “Wholly accepted. And honored, sir, though it may take a while to digest the good news.”

Wells nodded, giving his pouting daughter his fullest attention as he wiped her slicked with saliva hand with his handkerchief. Barry then lowered his gaze to his roughened hands, wondering if all of what he had accomplished in his life – mostly the blood of the many pirates he killed, whose lives were equally valuable that would forever taint his skin – worth the promotion he was given. All he wanted, back when he was younger and naïve to all the politics in the world, was to be with the sea he dearly loved. Protect it. But to achieve that, he needed to be in league with Central’s dictatorial status quo. Truly, all sacrifices he made just for inessential nurtures, had scraped him raw. The tormented, frozen faces of the pirates he felled played back every single moment he held his weapons. Not because he had killed pirates, he would have preferred to arrest them alive and sent to Iron Heights – still walking and breathing. But it was because he had eliminated people who were equally human.

As the sun dropped and the sky darkened, Barry was roused from his thoughts when the ship’s watcher bellowed a warning that had the sailors on deck suddenly panicking. Unprepared, the fleet was surrounded with thick rolls and curtains of smog, confusing the Commodore’s compass and deterred their route home. They were alarmed when the Boatswain made known that the other three ships sailing behind them were lost in the clouds.

“…this is a terrible omen, sir,” the Quartermaster beside him stuttered under his breath, nervously steering the wheel. Silently, Barry believed him. “Bad luck.”

“Bad luck to us or someone else?” he asked.

“Both.”

Then there was a loud squawk that shook the entire men on deck, the Commodore included, as they waited for the unknown. Barry – curious – weaved through his sailors, hearing them muttering their prayers and spouting curses at voodoo witches and sirens whilst he chased the continuous screeches in the evening blindness.

“— _the waves talk_ ,” the fisherman’s voice echoed in his head.

He reached the ship’s front deck where the smog was heavier, and spotted a charcoal colored bird dawdling idly on the railing. Sleek feathers, sharp claws and a golden canister strapped to one thigh. Messenger bird to an anonymous master it seemed, a bold raven – colossal for its species, but with two pairs of burning auburn eyes. Barry blinked where it tilted its head, eyes locked and observed him, one claw tapping against the wood rail, ticking. He wondered if he was hallucination or still asleep on his chair. But the raven squawked again, turning to fly and soar away into the mist.

_“—the waves talk. If you listen…”_

Ravens were once used as navigators by the Vikings to find land, an integral part in ancient sailing. But in his current situation – if he heeded the fisherman’s words, and listened closely – the gentle swoosh of the winds and the smog light in the air, came from the direction where the raven had flown to. His instincts told him, the raven was trying to lead him somewhere. Not land but someplace else. Someplace that would answer all the questions he had. Barry quickly went back to the quarterdeck, informed the Commodore about the raven and told the Quartermaster to steer the ship eastward, and counter the cold breeze.

“Keep a weather eye, men!” Wells commanded, his daughter tucked safely in his arms, as the crew jumped about to perform their respective duties.

Where the frigate’s bow pierced through the smog, unnerving silence shortly followed. The crew’s fidgety eyes kept watch, feet anchored by their posts. Lanterns and torches were lit, orange-red hues glowing radiantly in the dark. The floorboards and the ship’s wooden structure creaked and groaned, water splashing and lapping, and their sails fluttering lightly. One ship seemingly lost, all by its lonesome, on the vast sea of secrets. Barry took a deep breath, squinting and searching through the haze for whatever the raven was leading them to. Slow, tiring moments had passed when the frigate seemed to bump on endless swimming litters; felt an unbearable heat scorching the night air and stumbled upon a popping crimson glare of a burning shipwreck between the cracks of the clouds. One-half of a naval vessel came to view, where the bodies of its crew drifting by as the winds brought along the heavy stench of gunpowder and blood.

“I-It’s Central’s flag, sir!”

“Oh Lord…!”

And the dead crewmen were dressed in red and blue Royal coats, men who belonged to one of Commodore’s ships. Could this be a freak accident, an ambush in the confusing mist, or…?

Savitar?

“Damn, heave to and take in sail. Launch to the boats!” the Commodore ordered, then grasped hold of Barry’s arm. “Lead the men, see if there are any survivors.”

“Aye, sir.”

As he abandoned his coat and hat, Barry called the men to bring along a spare dinghy for the corpses and goods they could salvage from the shipwreck, and swiftly led the small rescue party. And not before long, they were already rowing their way towards the wreckage. Barrels and crates; blackened ropes and white sails flittering all over, clutters and remnants of still burning wood, ashes and the stink of oil and searing human flesh. Their torches cleared their way through the obscure, as the sailors began to load the empty dinghy with remains. Barry and few others carefully stepped on to what was left of the vessel, commanding two seamen to investigate the brig below, considering that this particular ship was in charge of withholding most of the pirates they captured. He looked around, the ship was missing its front and its rear jutted out the waters; the main mast had collapsed down the quarterdeck, hot cannons from the sizzling fire still chained to their locks, and the depressing scatters of weaponless dead bodies. They were ambushed then, as there were no signs of return fire.

Cautiously did he climb up the slippery boards and scraps, and found the lone entry to the Captain’s cabin. When he entered, he was saddened to find the old Captain already dead. But his sympathy was short-lived upon seeing a haggard old man in the quarters, dying against the wall. Barry tentatively approached him, heeding the man’s strained breathing; a sheen of sweat covering his pale skin, and a large protruding chunk of wood that had skewered his swollen stomach.

“I-I do not fear that wretch… I will gladly let him hound me to the Locker,” he wheezed, his watery eyes deceived his uttered words. Then he pointed a trembling, bloodied finger at one corner of the cabin where the table and chairs had toppled, papers and clothes strewn all over. “B-But the coffer… it must not fall into the wrong hands…”

Barry stopped him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Save your breath, sir. I’ll call for help.”

“Can’t you see him, boy?! _H-He’s_ coming…! We are running out of time!” the old man latched his hands tightly to the front of Barry’s vest, pleading. And all too sudden, the bold anger etched on his face dissipated. “I-I’ve made a mistake… the waves talk, but they boil when the devil nears… but the devil isn’t the one we should fear… the d-devil is still living…! _H-He_ , the **ghost** … will never rest until he finds the coffer. Please, d-destroy it.”

Ghost?

Barry furrowed his eyebrows, confused, it wasn’t Savitar the old man was warning him about. It was something, perhaps a mystical being, or someone else. The thousand questions he wanted to ask died on his tongue when the teary shine in the old man’s eyes began to dim, last breath heaved as he succumbed to his wounds – body sunk to the cold, wet floor, with his mouth frothing. On his knees in front of the dead old man, where the broken ship rocked as dulled voices outside the cabin grew nearer, Barry was stock-still. The fisherman’s words and now the old man’s, two stories contradicting one another but both talked how the waves had sent news to them. Unknown, cryptic news. Which was which? One feared the sea devil, about how unforgiving Savitar’s wrath was. But the other, mentioned an ambiguous foe more telling than the devil.

The foe, a ghost.

He wondered, what or who could have possibly been more powerful than a cursed man with lightning at his disposal. He knew no verbal nor written narratives that mentioned any ghosts, or anything supernatural that could correlate to both stories he heard and _believed_ thus far.

The two seamen found him then, their boots smeared with blood as they reported to him that unfortunately, the captured pirates had all passed. Like a carnage, they said, with bodies butchered and dismembered and already foul. Barry swallowed the lump in his throat, he knew that the pirates were stacked into small cells upon arrest, and he felt deservingly guilty for their suffering. He nodded, before asking the seamen to gather the dead Captain and the old man out with the rest of the corpses. Alone in the cold cabin, he hung his head in frustration when he spotted the rusty crown of a golden pocket watch, buried between two planks on the floor. This must be the old man’s. Carefully, he freed the delicate item. He mulled on the familiar, intricate design as he brushed his thumb against the dirty cover and clicked on the latch. When it opened, the watch’s hands still moved and ticked, but the small timeworn picture surprised him. He’d seen this picture before, held close in someone else’s hands, or maybe just a glimpse of it somewhere deep in his memories.

Barry shook his head when the ache took its toll on him, pinching the bridge of his nose before slipping the watch into the pocket of his vest. He turned his heels to the corner the old man had pointed, the spot where the coffer was knocked over. Finding the small chest amidst mountains of clothes and papers, he was amazed at the rough, bumpy patterns carved on the lid – like it was telling him a tragedy – and slowly, he cracked it open.

Inside – was a scroll.

It was antique, saffron and coffee colored, rolled where the ends were tied with red strings. It looked just as mystical as it sounded, as if it belonged to a celestial being. But his attention was drawn to the strings, where each end was burnt close to the knots but still tightly bound – like it was never opened. He heard his name hollered by the crew then, and decided to forsake the coffer behind but brought along and hid the scroll in his person.

Outside, he assisted the men investigating the rest of the shipwreck, and together they carted the bodies they could save and salvaged the goods. They counted – more than half of the ship’s crew, assuming the rest were already eaten by the sea, its Captain and the captives, were dead. No survivors. The Commodore then ordered for their safe return, fearing for their safety. But as Barry ushered the men to climb into the boats first, he saw something at the hidden corner that captured his eyes. A soft gleam of white in the waters, like dancing lights, which disappeared just when he came near to investigate. He found nothing, but his eyes were met with the same raven’s red. It squawked at him, perched on the butt of a wasted cannon, claws tapping before it flew away. Barry watched it chasing the clearing fog, vanishing suddenly as one of the crew relayed him a message from the Commodore that the frigate’s navigators had found and plotted the course home.

A few hours into the night, where the stars glittered abundantly above them, they fed the sea with bodies of the dead – tribute to Poseidon, swaddled in white and in their shredded sails, these vast waters close to home would be their burial place. To return them to the sea they loved, to honor them so their souls would rest in peace, until the Quartermaster muttered, somewhat still terrified.

“…a terrible omen, now that the Commodore’s two ships are missing. P-Poseidon does not take dead sacrifices. The devil does. W-We are leaving him crumbs to our homes.”

He gently asked the Quartermaster to retire to bed as did many others, leaving a guard on the man’s post by the wheel.

After a late, quiet dinner with the cook and some of the bushed crew, Barry returned to his shared quarters and snorted at Edward, head hidden underneath his pillow, snoring and fast asleep. Lighting a candle on his table, he sighed at the mess of inked parchments and moved to tidy them. He took out the scroll, sat on his chair with a soft grunt and began to loosen the red strings. Imagine his surprise to discover that the scroll was actually a map, perhaps a perplexing one and a strange invention. A nautical chart with no fixed points made out of worn bamboo; geographical landmarks drawn haphazardly and riddled, words were written in a dead language, with meridian rings and equatorial divisions. As he attempted to turn the outer arc, he flinched at the cut he received. It stung, the pain was akin to when he was shot two years ago. But he failed to notice that a drop of his blood had fallen between two arcs just when he shifted on his seat to nurse his cut.

With the bandage tied snugly around his pointer, Barry was suddenly reminded of the watch he had taken from the shipwreck. It weighed so light in his pocket and on the palm of his hand when he slipped it out, balancing his elbows on the table as he admired it a little longer. It was terribly nostalgic, beautiful despite its age and the hands ticking so calmly, following the soft rhythm of the waves and the creaks of wood. The worn picture inside, was of a woman and her two young children. The woman, so elegant with kind features, light eyes and a beautiful smile. His lips curved when he noticed that the son took after his mother’s beauty, and the daughter was somewhat similar to the old man’s – not harsh looking like a man, but still possessed her mother’s charm.

At the back of the watch, he found letters fashioned into the metal. The old man’s name, perhaps. And read quietly, “ **Leonard**.”

_“—forget me, Barry. Don’t look back.”_

The watch fell from his hands, clanging to the table as he blinked. It was that same whisper of a voice again, deep from his dreams.

Barry stayed awake for the remainder of the night, his mind too clocked up to sleep, the scroll and watch safely hidden in his coat, as he waited along with a few of his crewmembers for the sunrise. When it came, the sheer beauty of the sun’s noble marmalade color sent a wave of ease through him as the star basked in the warmth of dark blue, rose and golden sky. This view was what he paid for and yearned to see, every day. Seagulls then squawked and wailed, sailors slowly trickled out to help with the sails whilst some proceeded to pack their cargoes and belongings. Home was just close by. He took in the repeated routine of fishermen fishing and trawling; red coats guarding, stationed ships anchoring and boats rowing. This was home, mundane as it looked, it was his home. When the ship’s servant told him that his personal effects and logs would be delivered shortly to the Governor’s estate, Barry thanked the boy. Though exhausted, he managed to curve a smile at the darling sight of his dear sister, Iris – who was waiting for his and Edward’s safe returns, along with a harried-looking Joe in his glorious white wig and Wallace, at the dock.

Of course they were worried. The news must have reached their ears. The Commodore’s frigate was the only ship from the fleet to have survived the unexplained misfortune. One destroyed, two missing. Upon docking, Barry and Edward followed Wells and his sleepy daughter down the platform. And Joe immediately drew his foster son into his arms, hugging the life out of him. It was shocking, considering their relationship had bruised so much over the years.

“Oh, thank the Lord you’re alive…!”

Barry tensed, his eyebrows rose at Iris who replied with a slight slump of her shoulders, and awkwardly did he pat Joe’s back before the Governor pulled away. He added that he was extremely proud of him, and said he heard nothing but great news. Great news, Barry caught on, Joe was just overjoyed that his plans worked. All the happiness and homesickness that he felt, instantly drained as Joe was quick and clueless to remind him of all the blood he had spilled. That was what he called _proud_? Joe switched his attention to the Commodore then, expressing his deepest condolences and offered the man and his daughter brunch at the estate whilst discussing an urgent affair with him. Barry’s promotion, what else? Joe simply loved to flaunt his wealth and his children’s achievements to the world.

“I must say, I have never seen the Governor such in high spirits,” Edward piped, surrendering his fiancée so she could embrace and welcome Barry home.

Wallace smirked, “Would it shock you if I say he is planning something ridiculous? Say, an overture in marriage?”

Edward gaped, disbelief. “I didn’t know he had it in him! Who’s the lucky damsel?”

“Unfortunately, not father,” Iris cut in, tucking herself under Barry’s arm, and held his hand. “But for Barry. Father’s playing matchmaker, you see. He wouldn’t listen to me when I said you wouldn’t be too pleased about it.”

Barry widened his eyes at her. “He plans to marry me off to whom?”

“Patricia Spivot, Coast City’s wealthy oil merchant’s charming young daughter,” Wallace supplied, hands on his hips as he clicked his tongue. “He specifically asked me to be your mediator to sail all the long miles to Coast City. Test the waters, he said, if the blond beauty is open for marriage.”

“And?”

“She is. I say, she is a little gullible. Her father is completely on board. Who wouldn’t want to marry off his daughter to a handsome gentleman like you?”

He groaned, slapping his forehead with his hand. “Why in the bloody hell did he do this to me? Couldn’t he simply wait for you two to get married and have babies for him to call grandchildren? Did he not remember what he asked of me months ago?”

To be someone whom the pirates feared, which would also entail in potential suitors to fear him too.

Iris sighed. “I admit. It is rather selfish of father to force you like this. I will talk to him again, Barry. I promise.” She tried a smile, despite the curve being a small one. Edward, too, was equally sympathetic.

Wallace resting his arm around his shoulder. “And I, as your sickeningly sweet of a brother, will do all I can to make Patricia and her butterball of a father – to not accept whatever ramblings father has to offer.”

Barry breathed out heavily, calming the rage that he bore for Joe, as his brother shook him lightly and told him they would make everything better, and normal again. Here he was, letting his adopted siblings to fight his battles for him. He thought of it, Joe controlled much of his life ever since Barry decided he wanted to sail the seven seas. He didn’t think much before, and now he couldn’t stop it. Edward then tried to lift the heavy atmosphere with a few of his stories and jokes about sea critters, and it didn’t fail to put a smile on his face and laughs from his siblings. Iris proposed, minutes later, that they should head over to Ramon’s for an early lunch. Because apparently, his childhood friend was missing him so much and that Cisco’s darling grandmother was already cooking him his favorites, enough to serve an army to satisfy his huge appetite.

It was then that Barry remembered they were still at the dock. He took in the familiar sight and faces around him, catching a few new buildings and businesses constructed nearby, all the while half-heartedly listening to Iris and Wallace’s tease about Edward’s gruff appearance. Barry’s attention landed to where the frigate’s surviving pirates were ordered to step down the platform. They would be transported to Iron Heights, to be justly sentenced – as told. But he narrowed his eyes at one whom he somewhat recognized, yet he couldn’t recall of ever arresting him in the first place. The pirate’s hands and legs were chained as with the others; scars on inked forearms, huge built with a clean-shaven head. The other pirates cowered when they saw Barry, but this man, he growled at him, in defiance before he was shoved by a guard to move along.

As the pirates passed, metal chains clanking and boots thudding, Barry went still again – wondering where in the world had he seen him before.

Then, there was that raven’s squawk again.

 

*

 

Through his spyglass he overlooked the mess before him, wincing at the lingering smell of blood and gunpowder, and noted that all that was left of the naval ship was already gone. He was too late, either the coffer had sunken back to its cave or was taken by a scavenger – or worse, a Navy scavenger. Leonard lowered his spyglass then, pondering where should he and his crew hop to next when all hints, as of now, were spent. The waves were quiet. He raised his head to the sky then when an overhead shadow passed him by, followed by a squawk and swept in Hartley’s pet raven. The little messenger flew to rest on top of the wheel, flapping its wings in order to greet him. And despite its eerie appearance, the raven was surprisingly a very affectionate creature.

“Good morning to you too,” he smiled. “What news do you have for me, Junior?”

It squawked happily at him, head tilting to its thigh. Ooh, how delightful! Leonard caressed Junior’s head as he opened the canister and found a piece of rolled parchment inside. He unfolded the paper, and snorted at Mick’s quick but horrible handwriting.

**Ctl-Gov-Oc.**

It was a code between him, his sister and Mick – a simple one really. The name of the place, who or what kept them there, and the reason why. They grew up together, raised one another on the streets and this used to be their method of communication when separated. So they would know that the missing other was alive. Mick told them, a few weeks prior, that he would catch that blasted old man who stole Leonard’s treasure. He was grateful, eternally, but danger was lurking by and Leonard couldn’t afford to lose a brother. But he frowned—

“Ah, Junior has arrived!” Lisa bounced up the quarterdeck, her attire showed too much skin for Leonard’s delicate eyes, as she peered over his shoulder with her hand reaching over to tickle Junior’s neck. Her eyes twinkled then. “Finally, I’m so tired of waiting. A wild girl like me needs her daily dose of fun, you know.”

Leonard rolled his eyes.

And Hartley, cooed at Junior who had perched itself on his shoulder, bumping its head on his cheek, stood on his post behind the wheel. “Raid and rescue, Captain?”

“Raid and rescue,” he returned, and waved the paper. “And a side-mission, apparently.”

“Well, color me impressed Mick actually found a lead,” Lisa whistled, then she turned to their men. “What are you waiting for, boys? Luff the sails, set forth to Central!”

They answered her, as energetically as she was. Leonard watched his crew for a while, bounding the ropes and rushing about, and he was proud of them for their loyalty. Central was not that far, but it would be highly preferable to ambush the city at night. He’d heard of the pirate hunter, Wells’ disciple, and was heartbroken when he learned the soldier’s name. Then he looked down to the parchment in his hands, **Oc**. Mick knew where it was. He found it.

**Ctl.**

Central.

**Gov.**

Governor.

**Oc.**

“Oculus,” he mumbled.

 

 


End file.
